In my fourth year of university, which started in September 1997, I lived in a rundown part of East London, above a furniture shop on Upton Lane, next door to a mosque.
Because of the location and the predominantly Muslim neighbourhood, as well as the diverse backgrounds of my flatmates and their friends, a variety of Muslims would pass through for occasional stays. The flat was often unkempt, but it was always lively, full of intriguing characters with different approaches to life and faith.
One such character was a man named Ibrahim, though I might be wrong about his name. He was a white convert to Islam and, like many converts, had chosen to name himself after a prophet. It might have been Ibrahim or another prophetic figure, but what stood out to me wasn’t his name—it was his enthusiasm for Islam, though it often took on a literalist tone that I found concerning.
Ibrahim’s faith was sincere, but he seemed to interpret Islamic teachings in a very rigid way. One evening, he challenged my friend Yaseen, who lived with me. Yaseen was an almost-professional boxer, having been offered a chance to train under Frank Maloney’s boxing stable, though he ultimately didn’t have the commitment to attend regularly. Ibrahim confidently proclaimed that, through the strength of his faith, he could avoid Yaseen’s punches. Yaseen, ever the joker, was amused by this claim and agreed to the contest.
Ibrahim set himself, and Yaseen, with a grin, threw a punch. It wasn’t a hard one, but it was enough to knock Ibrahim’s glasses askew. Unfazed, Ibrahim muttered a prayer under his breath and asked Yaseen to try again. This time, Yaseen’s punch knocked off Ibrahim’s turban and again dislodged his glasses, possibly damaging them. The scene repeated a few more times, each punch harder than the last. Yaseen wasn’t holding back—his punches were audacious, surprising even me with their force.
It was clear he wasn’t just playing along for amusement. With each strike, Yaseen seemed to be sending a message, trying to break through Ibrahim’s rigid understanding of things. I, however, felt conflicted—on the one hand, I respected Ibrahim’s dedication, but on the other, his naivety troubled me. His literal approach to Islam seemed to be working against him, not for him. I’m not sure which prayer Ibrahim was making, but his expectation seemed to me way off the mark.
Ibrahim had very poor eyesight and relied heavily on his glasses. The next time we saw him was at Regent’s Park Mosque during Ramadan, where many gathered for the free iftar. When we approached him, it was clear he didn’t even recognise us, likely because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Yaseen, ever curious, asked him why. Ibrahim muttered something about mustard seed curing all ailments, adding that he didn’t need his glasses anymore. He was shaking his head in wonder and praising Allah, yet the situation bordered on the ludicrous—it was obvious his eyesight hadn’t improved, and yet he clung to this misguided belief, seemingly oblivious to the reality in front of him.
I couldn’t help but feel that Ibrahim’s interpretation of this Islamic tradition—about the benefits of mustard seed—was causing more harm than good. It seemed to me that, instead of embracing the practical wisdom that Islam encourages, he was getting lost in a form of blind faith that hindered his ability to function effectively in the world.
I left that encounter feeling concerned for him, hoping that he would eventually find the guidance he needed to navigate his faith in a way that empowered him, rather than hindered him.
Note: Names have been changed to protect the identity of individuals mentioned.
23 Sep 2024 No Comments
Knocking Out Literalism
In my fourth year of university, which started in September 1997, I lived in a rundown part of East London, above a furniture shop on Upton Lane, next door to a mosque.
Because of the location and the predominantly Muslim neighbourhood, as well as the diverse backgrounds of my flatmates and their friends, a variety of Muslims would pass through for occasional stays. The flat was often unkempt, but it was always lively, full of intriguing characters with different approaches to life and faith.
One such character was a man named Ibrahim, though I might be wrong about his name. He was a white convert to Islam and, like many converts, had chosen to name himself after a prophet. It might have been Ibrahim or another prophetic figure, but what stood out to me wasn’t his name—it was his enthusiasm for Islam, though it often took on a literalist tone that I found concerning.
Ibrahim’s faith was sincere, but he seemed to interpret Islamic teachings in a very rigid way. One evening, he challenged my friend Yaseen, who lived with me. Yaseen was an almost-professional boxer, having been offered a chance to train under Frank Maloney’s boxing stable, though he ultimately didn’t have the commitment to attend regularly. Ibrahim confidently proclaimed that, through the strength of his faith, he could avoid Yaseen’s punches. Yaseen, ever the joker, was amused by this claim and agreed to the contest.
Ibrahim set himself, and Yaseen, with a grin, threw a punch. It wasn’t a hard one, but it was enough to knock Ibrahim’s glasses askew. Unfazed, Ibrahim muttered a prayer under his breath and asked Yaseen to try again. This time, Yaseen’s punch knocked off Ibrahim’s turban and again dislodged his glasses, possibly damaging them. The scene repeated a few more times, each punch harder than the last. Yaseen wasn’t holding back—his punches were audacious, surprising even me with their force.
It was clear he wasn’t just playing along for amusement. With each strike, Yaseen seemed to be sending a message, trying to break through Ibrahim’s rigid understanding of things. I, however, felt conflicted—on the one hand, I respected Ibrahim’s dedication, but on the other, his naivety troubled me. His literal approach to Islam seemed to be working against him, not for him. I’m not sure which prayer Ibrahim was making, but his expectation seemed to me way off the mark.
Ibrahim had very poor eyesight and relied heavily on his glasses. The next time we saw him was at Regent’s Park Mosque during Ramadan, where many gathered for the free iftar. When we approached him, it was clear he didn’t even recognise us, likely because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Yaseen, ever curious, asked him why. Ibrahim muttered something about mustard seed curing all ailments, adding that he didn’t need his glasses anymore. He was shaking his head in wonder and praising Allah, yet the situation bordered on the ludicrous—it was obvious his eyesight hadn’t improved, and yet he clung to this misguided belief, seemingly oblivious to the reality in front of him.
I couldn’t help but feel that Ibrahim’s interpretation of this Islamic tradition—about the benefits of mustard seed—was causing more harm than good. It seemed to me that, instead of embracing the practical wisdom that Islam encourages, he was getting lost in a form of blind faith that hindered his ability to function effectively in the world.
I left that encounter feeling concerned for him, hoping that he would eventually find the guidance he needed to navigate his faith in a way that empowered him, rather than hindered him.
Note: Names have been changed to protect the identity of individuals mentioned.
by Abu Imaan in Uncategorized